


Second Star To The Right

by roachpatrol



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, Time Travel, Timey-Wimey, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roachpatrol/pseuds/roachpatrol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Vriska gets close enough to call hello, instead of responding, your future self kneels down by you, takes your face in his hands-- <i>your</i> hands-- and presses your mouths together.</p><p>You freeze up, and he sticks in his tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Star To The Right

**Author's Note:**

> (1)
> 
> Written for the homesmut kinkmeme. Prompt was to write something for this picture: http://i.imgur.com/RWocW.jpg
> 
> (2)
> 
> The Troll biology I'm using here is along the lines of my other fic [Take You Wonder By Wonder](http://archiveofourown.org/works/207424), in that they're all hermaphroditic, having both a bulge and a nook, and can be sexually active for a sweep or two before they're old enough to provide the Imperial Drones with genetic material.
> 
>  
> 
> (3)
> 
>  _The second star to the right  
>  Shines in the night for you  
> To tell you that the dreams you plan  
> Really can come true_  
> \--Peter Pan (1953), _Second Star To The Right_

  
  


 

 

You are sitting on the porch of a little wooden tree-house in the Land of Maps and Memory, dangling your useless legs off the side and watching Vriska down on the beach.

 

She’s wading around out in the waves, arguing with her siren consorts. Her shirt clings wetly to her shoulders, her hair hangs in wild waves around her face, and her knuckles are flushed blue from punching recalcitrant fishgirls in the face. She looks like she's having the time of her life.

 

Another you pops into existence. He stands-- _stands!_ \-- beside you, and leans one shoulder against a support beam, watching Vriska conduct her business.

 

"She was always so beautiful like this," this future self of you says, and the way he says it makes something heavy settle into your guts and squirm like an over-incubated fiduspawn.

 

You don't ask what he means, and he thankfully doesn't offer.

 

You eye him-- you eye yourself? It’s not exactly the first time you’ve seen your self, but you’re still really new to this time traveling thing, and not really sure about any of it, really, and the only future selves you seen so far have been nice enough to keep out of your way and not do anything freaky like stand-- _stand, he’s standing_ \-- next to you and stare kind of hungrily off at Vriska Serket of all people.

 

He’s bigger than you, is the most unsettling thing. It’s not just the somehow not being a cripple anymore thing; he’s a few inches bigger all around, his shoulders a little broader, his jaw a little stronger. He’s got just a tattered overshirt on, the ragged collar flipped up around his neck in a jagged ruff, buttons long lost-- his chest is bare and he’s not wearing your symbol anywhere, and his jeans are a washed-out russety brown and shredded to stringy ribbons across the thighs. You’re already living like two or three days to everyone else’s one, and this scares you. How long are you all going to be playing this game, and how much longer, then, are you yourself going to spend looping through however long it is over and over? Long enough to be this guy, this self, at least, long enough to be half a sweep older if not practically a whole entire sweep. His horns-- your horns are going to get so _big_ , you realize with dismay, his are at least a full handspan wider and maybe even two handspands longer at the turned-up ends. But he stands there with a casual, almost arrogant confidence, and when he turns his head around to smile at you he wears them like a crown.

 

Vriska finishes her business up, and turns back to wade to shore. You shift uneasily, looking from your-- server? partner? friend?-- to your other self and back again.

 

"Oh, uh, she's, coming, this way-- should, uh should you still-- uh, maybe you should go?"

 

Future Tavros just watches her, this funny look in his eyes, and when she stops in the surf and stares up at him he waves a little.

 

She waves back, hesitantly, and starts to come towards the two of you. The one of yous? You are going to have to get used to this whole thing eventually, you guess, but in the meanwhile  it makes certain conjugations kind of difficult.

 

When Vriska gets close enough to call hello, instead of responding, your future self kneels down by you, takes your face in his hands-- _your_ hands-- and presses your mouths together.

 

You freeze up, and he sticks in his tongue.

 

It's startling and weird, and when you pull back he goes with you, his hands kind of kneading at your neck in a way that makes you prickle all over, and you keep sort of squirming back and he keeps moving with you that by the time you have scooted up against the sagging porch railing he is kneeling between your sprawled legs and your mouth feels hot and weird and your lips are all tingly and you've kind of licked him back, a little. You let him angle your face to one side, pressing in all close and really wet, the slide of his tongue against yours this weird distracting pressure but really nice, really soft.

 

His hands trail lower, as he kisses you and you are kissed, leaving trails of burning-hot skin in their wake. You've never felt anything like it, this isn't how you touch yourself when you're messing around in private moments, and you want more of it, way more. He's not touching you any kind of way that you expect, but every which way he strokes across your skin is a way that you really _like._

 

He kisses you and kisses you some more, encouraging, and when you lean forward into it a little, he palms your crotch.

 

"Oh," you murmur, and you can feel your hips twitch a little.

 

He kneads the heel of his palm into the base of your bulge, a steady pressure between your rapidly unsheathing bulge and your flushing nook, coaxing out an even longer, louder "Ohhhh _ohh oh wow_ ," from you. You fist your fingers in his ragged overshirt and let your head fall back against the porch railing, overwhelmed.

 

"What the fuck, Tavros," Vriska says, climbing up beside you. "You are _completely_ sick."

 

You squeak, choke on your own spit, and go into a coughing spasm.

 

“Hi, Vriska,” future Tavros says calmly, and pulls you away from the railing to pound on your back.

 

“I wasn’t talking to you,” she says.

 

“‘Course you were,” he says, and she scowls.

 

“So what the fuck are you doing to yourself?” Vriska asks. “Is sloppy makeouts some kind of grand predestination time thing that you have to do so reality doesn’t unravel, or what?”

 

“Nothing sloppy about them,” he disagrees, still so calm and so strange. “These are pin-point laser-guided precision makeouts, girl, and you’d do well to take some notes.” His pounding on your back has eased off as you’ve caught your breath again, turned into long, luxurious strokes up and down in a way that’s kind of soothing and distracting in equal parts. Your bulge is a heavy, insistent weight in your pants.

 

“I don’t, uh, know how I feel, about, that, that is to say, about this, I mean, you know, what you’re doing, I’m kind of, uh, at a loss, is, what you could say,” you offer.

 

Your future self strokes down your back again, then slides his fingers under your shirt and scores his nails gently up your stomach. You whimper a little, startled and off-balance, and lean back into him.

 

“Yeah,” Vriska says, sounding sort of dazed. “Yeah, that, what he said.”

 

“So you don’t want to do this?” your future self asks, still teasing at your sensitive stomach with his nails, making you twitch and gasp. You’re not entirely sure whether he’s talking to you or Vriska or both of you or what.

 

“I... I wasn’t saying _that_ , exactly,” Vriska says uncertainly. “I just want to know what you think you’re _doing_.”

 

“Well, you’re the Thief of Mind, Vriska,” he says, clearly amused, “Why don’t _you_ tell _me_ what I think I’m doing?”

 

“It looks like you’re making out with yourself?”

 

“Is that a question?”

 

“No, I mean, that’s what it looks like! You’re making out in front of me with yourself, that’s totally what you’re doing right now! Argh, why are we even arguing?”

 

“You tell me, girl.”

 

“Maybe I don’t _want_ to tell you! What about that, huh?”

 

“Maybe you should tell me what you _do_ want, then.”

 

“I want-- you-- uh--”

 

“Uh,” he says, kind of mocking, and digs in his nails enough to make you squeak and drop your head back against his shoulder. Vriska’s eyes go wide and her cheeks are flushed blue all over, and she twists her fingers together in agitation.

 

“That’s not even _fair_ ,” she growls.  

 

“How about I tell you what I’m doing,” he says.

 

“Oh, sure how about,” she snaps. “That’d be just _great._ ” You can almost hear the crisp pop of the 8’s in there.

 

"What I’m doing, now, is providing a perfect demonstration of how the best way to get someone to jump off a cliff, is you don’t _push_ them--”

 

"I-- what--" she sputters, and he holds up a hand, stopping her.

 

“--You make them want to _fly_ , Thief," he says, softly, and she takes a sharp step back and shivers a little.

 

Your future self laughs, softly, kind of to himself, and then he takes your ear between his teeth, gentle and prickly, and slowly bites down. Your breath hitches and then hitches again, and you can't help the whimper that worms its way out of you. You feel flooded with heat and confusion and this weird new desire to just let him to that to you forever.

 

Vriska makes a low, confused noise, off to the side, and sits down hard on on the floor.

 

"No touching, Vriska," your future self says.

 

"But--"

 

" _No touching_. Just pay attention."

 

She huffs out a rough breath. "Okay," she says. "Okay yeah right. I can do that."

 

"Keep it slow, that's rule one."

 

You've gone all nervous and jittery, and his touch almost freaks you out more than it feels good. You don't think you can do this with Vriska watching the two of you.

 

"Slow," your future self murmurs, and sucks gently at the point of your ear and you squeak a little, squirm into his wandering fingers. He holds you up against him and he strokes you, your stomach, your ribs, your chest, a warm smooth pressure that calms you down. You recognize it because this is how you pet wild animals, the ones that aren't sure about how much they like you yet, but you've never had it done to you and it is making perfect sense now that the animals you treat like this end up so sure they like you, because _wow._

 

He licks your ear again, then bites it, sharp enough to send your hips stuttering up into nothingness again, then goes back to sucking. You realize you are making a high, continuous whine, your own fingers scrabbling aimlessly at the floorboards, and try to stop. As soon as you do he nips at you again, and you squeak and twitch and whine again, then it's a cycle, a rhythm, he's playing with you. Playing you.

 

He licks and nips and pets you and coaxes you louder each time, coaxes words out like “ _Please--”_ and “ _Fuck--”_ and _“Yes--”_ , and just when you don't think you can take any more of it he shifts over and switches to your other ear.

 

Then you say _“Oh god more more more fuck please!”_ all in one rush and you can hear Vriska swallow roughly and your future self laughs, bright and cheerful, and slides you up into his lap entirely, his thigh rising teasingly up between yours. You can't do anything more than roll your hips a little, your dead legs just dragging you down and you swear with frustration. Your figure self laughs again and teases you a little faster and it's almost enough.

 

Then Vriska tries to lean in, and your future self swings his horns around in a vicious arc, clocking her full in the face and sending her sprawling back on her ass.

 

"What!?" she yelps.

 

"Vriska!" you say, and try to struggle away from the arms wrapped up tight and possessive around you.

 

"What the _fuck_ was that, Tavros!?" she demands, her hand clapped to her blue-flushed cheek.

 

"What does _don't touch_ mean, Vriska?" your future self demands.

 

"I didn't--"

 

"What, Vriska, do you think I meant, when I said _no touching_ , did you think I meant _unless you really want to_?"

 

By the obvious set of her scowl this is exactly what she thought and she isn't pleased at all to be called on it.

 

But when she goes to get up, future Tavros hunches up his shoulders around yours and sets down his horns at her, swinging them ever so slightly back and forth, and she hesitates. You don't know if at some point in your future you really do start taking people apart with them, and Vriska certainly doesn't either, but there is something terrifyingly serious about the sharp white slash of his grin, beside your own face, the mad red gleam in his eyes while you’re all wrapped up and helpless, folded into him.

 

You are suddenly not sure at all if you want to grow up to be this guy, legs or no legs.

 

"No means no," future Tavros says, slowly, every word perfectly level and measured. "Everything happens when it should happen and not before. _Do not push_ _me, girl_."

 

She shivers at that, all over, her lips parting just slightly.

 

And she sits back.

 

"You're the boss," she says, and grins shakily.

 

"It's me," future Tavros agrees, and something of that scary brightness fades out of his face. He rubs a hand against your throbbing bone bulge through your jeans, almost thoughtfully, and you tremble and moan “Yes yes do that please--”

 

He grabs you by the horns, and lays you across the floorboards on your stomach.

 

"What,” you manage to gasp, rising up on your elbows, “uhh, what are, you--"

"Easy, now," he sooths, stroking up your spine, shucking your jeans off your dead, unresponsive legs. You wish --desperately and for the millionth, billionth time-- that you could get them to work again, that you could just _move_ for once, any which way you liked, without planing or flailing or dragging across the floor like a wriggler, and he kisses your neck like he knows just what you're thinking.

 

You look terrible when you’re naked, the healthy planes of muscle fading abruptly into so much slack bruised-up skin and wasting meat as perigee by perigee they fade from disuse. It hurts just to look at yourself, so you don't, you look back over your shoulder at _him_.

 

"How," you ask, almost _accuse_ , as he shucks his own shredded jeans off, moving light and easy, his skin unscarred and taut over long, lean muscles.

 

"In good time," he says, sort of apologetically smirking. You hadn't even known that was an expression anyone could make until you saw yourself making it.

 

" _When?_ " you demand.

 

"When it happens."

 

You hitch yourself into an awkward arc to reach him, and run your fingers over the stretch of one shin. The skin is utterly smooth and soft, softer even than yours, soft as a grub's or a newhatched wriggler’s.

 

"Soon?"

 

"Soon enough, Pupa," he says, _you_ say.

 

You press a kiss to one knee, and roll back to your stomach where he wanted you.

 

He pulls you back against him, bit by bit, easing you on to his-- your other?-- bone bulge. It’s way way thicker than your fingers, even like three or four fingers at once, but he goes so slow and careful that by the time he’s all the way in it doesn’t even hurt, it just feels really amazing and awesome and _right_ , tight and full and hot and perfect, like you were somehow made for this.

 

“Good?” he asks.

 

You nod, a little convulsively. “Good,” you gasp. “So good, god, it’s, it’s fantastic.”

 

He rolls his hips, sliding in and out of you just a little, and when you nod again and squirm your shoulders encouragingly-- okay, _desperately_ \-- he does it a bit harder, and then harder still, farther out and then _in_ really fast and good, and it makes you kind of want to die so that you will never have to live in a world where this kind of amazing thing is not happening to you.

 

Vriska’s making this rough choked sort of gasping noise every time she breathes in, hunched forwards and watching you, her eyes wide and dazed with lust and her hands kneading awkwardly at the front of her jeans, a restless tense huddle of desire and impatience. Your future self was wrong, she wasn’t beautiful down in the surf with her consorts, she’s beautiful _here_ , beautiful _now,_ strung out and hungry for you and still sitting there obediently, not touching, not reaching, just _wanting._

 

She looks at you, _you_ you, not future you, and you look back at her and neither of you can look away.

 

"Say her name," your future whispers in your ear.

 

"Vriska?" you mumble, and she _squeaks,_ one hand flying up to clamp over her mouth, and future Tavros gives your bulge a long, tortuously good pump. You're so close, you're so incredibly close-- if he could only do that again--

 

"Again," he murmurs. “Don’t you want her?”

 

"Vriska-- _ah, yes--_ " he pumps you again, rolls his hips a little, and stops. You drop your head to your forearms and nearly sob, " _Vriska_ , I, oh, _please_ , please, _Vriska--"_

 

His arm is around your chest, keeping you trapped, and the only stimulation is what he's chosing to let you have and you have never been this turned on or messed up or desperate. You struggle against him and you scream and beg for release and you don't feel the slightest shred of fear or shame--

 

"Can I-- please-- just _let_ me--" Vriska says, and your future self lowers his horns, warningly. She whines up high in her throat and you whimper too.

 

"Please," you beg, "Please please please _Vriska_ \--"

 

"Please what?" your self asks you.

 

"Let me, let her have me-- just do _something--_ "

 

Your future self pulls out of your nook, unwraps his arms from around your chest and your bulge. You flop on the smooth wood floor before you can catch yourself, and instead of even bothering to try to drag yourself anywhere you just roll over.

 

"Please," you beg, and she's on you in a flash, fumbling off her jeans a scant second before she throws a leg over your hips. Her teeth dig hard into your lips, and her nails dig hard into your arms and she drinks you down like she's starving for you. Her nook rubs over your aching bulge and then engulfs it, as she sinks down on you, gasping for air against your own slack mouth and it is absolutely perfect.

 

She hisses _“_ God you’re so fucking big, what the _fuck_ ,” and you laugh, breathlessly, because no one ever told you sex would be like this or you would have been doing this forever, if you could have even believed them in the first place.

 

Future Tavros slips up behind her.

 

"Need a hand?" he asks, low and amused.

 

"You think you're so fucking clever, Pupa," Vriska gasps, and then gasps again when one of his hands fists her bulge. His other works its way back into your nook, pumping in time with the frantic rhythm of her hips and you grab at her wrists, her arms, and cling. You are utterly lost.

 

She drops her head to your chest, moans “Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh god _fuck_ Tavros--” and then your future self does something to her that you don’t quite catch and she screams, high and shatteringly loud, and climaxes all around you.

Her nook contracts, tight enough to almost hurt, and she presses frantic sloppy kisses across your neck and shoulders and sobs for breath as your future self pulls her back down when she tries to pull off you. He just keeps stroking at her oversensitive bulge, keeping her from getting off you or even going anywhere at all.

 

“Please please please,” she sobs, “it’s too much, it’s too too much please I can’t--” and she’s so incredibly hot and desperate and it’s doing such strange things to your insides, even aside from the intense blaze of pleasure consuming your bulge and your stomach and everywhere else she’s touching. You wrap your arms around her shoulders and move your hips as best as you can, and she shakes like she’s coming apart. You’re not sure at all if she’s still climaxing from the first time or just having another. Maybe your future self knows, but he’s just laughing, softly, stroking her bulge enough to keep her too messed up to try to get anywhere, and then taking a break from that every now and then to stroke your stomach, to pull at your hips and encourage you up into her some more.

 

His other hand’s still in your nook, keeping you full, kind of hooking you upwards and onwards. Finally it’s too much for you, too, and you climax too, blindly pressing your mouth against Vriska’s and kissing her frantically as you shake apart. She feels amazing. Everything feels amazing.  

 

You finally scrape your wits back together, and let go of the sodden, limp disaster that Vriska has been reduced to.

 

“Uhh, sorry,” you say.

 

She squirms off you like a wriggler, her arms apparently not even working right anymore, and flops heavily to one side. When future Tavros reaches for her she kicks at his hand, and buries her face in your neck.

 

“Vriska...?”

 

“Gimme a moment, okay,” she huffs. She presses her forehead really hard into your skin, and takes a deep shuddery sniffly breath. Then she sits up, and scrubs the blue streaks of her tears off on the back of her arm. Her makeup is streaked, her cerulean lipstick almost entirely chewed off. You wipe at your own mouth and find blue smears come off on your fingers, and she looks at you looking and gives the faintest, tiredest ghost of a snicker.

 

“I didn’t come,” your future self grumbles.

 

“Deal with it,” Vriska says. “I came enough for a fucking army, thanks.”

 

You feel very much in favor of doing nothing for approximately forever, but you sort of wriggle awkwardly back towards him, and put your hands on either side of his hips.

 

“Well, hey, there,” he says, approvingly, and runs his hands through your hair. “Yeah, that’s it.”

 

His bulge, your bulge, looks really different from this angle, but it smells still just like yourself and it isn’t hard at all to give him a long lick, from root to tip, something you’ve always kind of wanted to try or have done to you or something like that, anyway. He murmurs some wordless approval, fists his hands around your horns.

 

“You’re so goddamn weird, Tav,” Vriska says, and she sounds almost _admiring_.

 

You lick your other self’s bulge, long careful strokes up the shaft and over the head, minding your teeth, and press two fingers up into him, thinking hard about what you like and how that’s got to be oriented turnways, and in no time at all he’s making the same noises he made you make just a little bit ago. You curl your fingers and turn your head and suck on half the shaft of his bulge at once, the underside right where it’s the most sensitive.

 

He says _“Oh goddamn motherfucking shitwhores on a flaming bike--_ ” which is not actually anything you were expecting yourself to say, because that is just _rude_ , and wrenches your head around so that your mouth is all over almost his entire bulge, you’re _choking_ on it and really really _really_ trying not to bite your own dick off, and he climaxes still swearing one long startling inventive stream of profanity. Your mouth fills with this hot, sticky, sour fluid and you choke and swallow as best as you can, you swallow and swallow and _swallow_ and start to think that maybe you are going to die despite all available evidence to the contrary.

 

After a desperate eternity of this he finally lets go of you, lets you off, and you sprawl back on the floor and cough up some of that fluid, a pale creamy off-white spattering across the dark wooden floorboards, and you wipe at your mouth and gasp for air as he gets his own breath back.  Your stomach feels weird and heavy, kind of sickly _full_ , and you are completely not sure at all what just happened.

 

“So. Fucking. _Weird._ ” Vriska pronounces.

 

“You like it, girl,” your future self says, with all the easy certainty of prophecy. He gives you a kiss on the cheek, and brushes your sweat-sticky mohawk out of your eyes and back along your head, which you really appreciate, actually.

 

He snags his jeans off the floor and rolls easily up to his feet, pulling them back on and up his legs, over his hips, easing his wet bulge carefully back in as he zips up. You watch him the whole while, longing for something you can’t really explain. You want to be him right now almost as much as you’re terrified of him.

 

“Where’re you going?” Vriska asks.

 

“Second star to the right,” he says, with a wink to you, “didn’t you know, Thief?”

 

“That’s not an answer,” she says.

 

“An answer you don’t like is still an answer. But you never did really get that, did you?” With a practiced, confident roll of one wrist he summons up a set of panpipes, raises them to his lips.

 

“Wait!” Vriska says, jumping up and grabbing his wrist.

 

He goes perfectly still except for his mouth, which stretches wider and wider into kind of a scary broad smirking parody of a smile that sends awful cold prickles down your spine.

 

“A kiss for the road, Pupa?” she says, baring her fangs up at him in something that is not quite a smile either.

 

The smirk just gets weirder and scarier, and with the hand not holding the pipes he pulls a captchalogue card straight out of his sylladex.

 

Stored in the card is a single shining acorn from the brassy metal forests of your Land of Sand and Fall, and he presses it into her hands.

 

“A kiss and a piece of advice, Thief,” he says. "Word to the wise, grist for the mill, a surprise for sore eyes. And that is: to die will be an awfully big adventure."

 

He steps back and puts the pipes to his lips. A haunting note sounds out, a long low desolate throb that goes straight through the deepest core of you like a lance. For an instant he _shines_ , going bronze and gold as a star, and something like enormous amber wings seem to stretch from horizon to horizon. You throw up your arm against the light, and then he is gone.

 

"Wow," Vriska says. “Just... fuck, _wow_.”

 

"Yeah," you agree.

 

Slowly, carefully, you take her hand.


End file.
